Just Keep Looking
by LovesAngst
Summary: Arthur had finally found a use for Merlin's fumbling, bumbling, noisy way.  Although he'd never let on, Camelot's prince had been rather impressed with himself. That was before he lost Merlin.
1. Chapter 1

Arthur had finally found a use for Merlin's fumbling, bumbling, noisy way. Although he'd never let on, Arthur was rather impressed with himself. Everything was downhill from there.

CHAPTER 1

Rabbit.

They'd only been out hunting rabbit.

Arthur had finally found a use for Merlin's fumbling, bumbling, noisy way. Although he'd never let on, Camelot's prince was rather impressed with himself.

He simply told Merlin that they were hunting deer and that he must be 'stone quiet and stalk still'. Merlin being Merlin, this fairly guaranteed a grunting, rustling, tripping, manservant dropping bits and bobs of hunting gear in his wake. Lovely small game animals were flushed left and right. Last time they were out, Arthur managed to take a pheasant and a fine fat hare with two rapid-fire shots from his bow. The prince had had no idea his errant manservant could be so useful! Of course, it wasn't on purpose, but beggars can't be choosers.

They'd wandered amicably quite a goodly distance by the time Arthur thought to turn back.

"We'd better head back. It's near sunset and even if we make good time—which with you _Mer_lin is nearly always impossible—we are at least an hour out from the castle."

"You know, _sire_, if you'd like me to move more quickly, you could always help me carry some of this stuff of yours." Merlin bit out from behind an armload of gear topped by a rabbit…Arthur's dinner tomorrow most likely.

The prince smirked and poked his servant along, one gloved finger prodding annoyingly between Merlin's shoulder blades. "Me? Carry the gear? I'll be sure to take that under advisement. Now, hop to it."

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Bandits.

The bandits had been cleverer than most, by half.

As the boys ambled along, annoying each other as only they could, there was an enormous rustling in the undergrowth behind them; in a great rush of panting breath and swirling, torn skirts, a thin and plain looking young woman burst onto the path just as the prince turned.

"Help! Oh, please, you must help me!" The woman panted—eyes begging Arthur "They will _kill_ me!"

"What? Madam, please. What has happened?" The prince spoke in a voice honed especially for potentially hysterical noble-women. No sooner had the words passed his lips than Arthur drew his sword with the fluid grace of years of practice. He peered over this frightened woman's head, into the forest, the way she had come.

"There's no time sire! Please!"

"Not to fear, you are safe with us." Arthur's eyes found his servant's "Merlin?"

Merlin had already dropped his burden and had begun to feel about with his magic. He could detect no sorcery and allowed his guard down a hint. As Arthur faced the forest Merlin gamely herded the skittish other behind himself and, like Arthur, looked expectantly into the wood.

With a stealth that was surprising for such rag-tag looking men, two armed ruffians seemed to melt from the forest.

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Desperate.

One look and it was clear these were desperate men seeming to have little to lose.

In stark contrast to the tattered brigands with their rusty weapons, Arthur nearly glowed. Without a moment's pause he strode into the melee, sword flashing. This was what he'd been born to do. To defend those who could not defend themselves, to hold his life out in front of that of his subjects.

Merlin understood in a way that most did not that the fairest of nobility—of which he knew Arthur to be a shining example—were responsible for _all_ and would lay their lives down in an instant. Not for silver like a servant or glory like a knight—but for duty and the love of the people. People they'd often never met.

It came as no surprise to Merlin, although he could hear his ward gasp behind him, as Arthur quickly dispatched the larger attacker with one long slash. After the briefest parry he had the other down on one knee. Arthur's sword flashed downward, the killing stroke inevitable.

The maid gasped again, her delicate hand coming to rest tentatively on Merlin's shoulder. He turned quickly to her and was blinded by the blazing, setting sun.

As Merlin raised an arm to shade his eyes, his face was bathed in the orange light, a typical smile blooming as he turned to tell the damsel that she was indeed safe and that he was at her service.

"Madam." Merlin threw in a deferential nod. Not quite a bow, but really, he didn't even bow to the prince. "Although he's a bit high on himself, Arthur certainly can hold his own with a sword. Now…"

In the hot orange light, Merlin never saw the wrath flash across the woman's thin and dirty face as Arthur yanked his sword from a dying man. Never saw her hand dart to her sleeve.

For a moment, the most loyal servant's mind could not reconcile the slight woman in front of him with the stark blow he felt just above his belt. On the right.

As one, a breath burst loudly from Merlin's lips and he looked down, expecting to see a tiny, white-hot, fist sinking into his guts.

Merlin tore his eyes from the plain wooden hilt protruding from his side. Not good.

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Gone.

She was already gone, into the plummeting sun. The woman, the small bag of supplies, and what was to have been Arthur's rabbit-dinner. He was equal parts pained and surprised. Arthur'd have shared the supplies if she had just asked, Merlin thought. He would have.

Fear crossed his face as the boy steeled himself to look down again. Maybe he'd been mistaken.

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to be continued…you know it 

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	2. Chapter 2

Fear crossed his face as the boy steeled himself to look down again. Maybe he'd been mistaken.

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CHAPTER 2

No.

No, he had not been mistaken.

As Arthur charged off into the brush, unawares, Merlin sucked the cooling air around him through clenched teeth.

One of his trembling hands carefully touched his side.

Shirt already darkening, Merlin could feel hot blood running down his side, down his leg. Soaking into the thin fabric of his pants. He gently prodded again, unable to pull away—as if running one's tongue over a sore tooth.

As seconds ticked by Merlin's initial surprise began to clear. The pain grew. And grew. Hotter and hotter. The blade seemed to burn. His breath was coming in short painful gasps now, every movement a scorching, stabbing, poker.

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Prince Arthur's faithful manservant swayed, as the last of the sun sank.

In a wink, the sun blinked out.

Funny that, how something so beautiful, so powerful, could be in the world one moment and gone the next.

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Merlin toppled to his knees with a grimace and a grunt. The jolt caused such a stab of pain, the boy visibly paled. Eyes closed, the blood drained from his face as water from a dish pan. With one hand pressed around the hilt of the knife, Merlin's other hand found the forest floor; just keeping him up.

From his ungraceful hand-and-knees position, Merlin could hear only his gasping breaths and the tap tap tap of blood—his blood—pattering onto the new fallen leaves. His grimace would have been a smirk in any other situation—as he realized that he never _had_ been able to keep quiet in the forest. Even his blood was loud.

Tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap tap tap.

The sound of his own breath and the pattering of his life's blood reverberated back to Merlin's ears, just inches from the damp and close ground. Louder and louder. His head was spinning as it did after too much ale. For a moment he almost saw himself, lying on his narrow bed after a night in the tavern with Gwaine and Lancelot, head spinning and stomach protesting.

Merlin knew he _had_ to open his eyes.

He wasn't in his bed, and toppling over was not likely to be helpful in the present situation. As Merlin forced his eyes open, he tried for one deep breath only to find himself grunting out a curse.

Gods!

That _hurt_.

He knew he was badly injured._ Likely bloody dying with his sodding luck_. They were at least an hour from the castle. No one would expect them back anytime soon. The only other people they'd seen all day were either dead or run off. And he also knew their few medical supplies were long gone (with Arthur's rabbit).

But what Merlin knew most clearly was that he was _terrible_ at healing spells. Truly terrible.

Nonetheless, the ashen, panting, shaking warlock tried one—lips moving almost silently.

His dark eyes flickered with a shard of gold and…nothing.

Just the tap tap tap of those fat heavy drops. Like dripping leaves after a spring shower.

Merlin hung his head and was surprised to see how fast those drops—running down the knife's hilt before leaping to the ground—had added up to a rivulet of blood; running over the leaf litter into the small dent his right knee had made.

One more time.

Merlin knew valuable seconds were racing by. He had to try the spell again and bore down—eyes flashing. The effort only managed to increase both his pain and the tapping blood. His blood.

'Wonderful', Merlin thought with a sharp gasp, 'faster, bigger, better bleeding.' He almost could have laughed.

Almost.

No more than a few moments had passed since Merlin turned to the woman (traitorous, thieving _goat_!) and already he was confusingly dizzy. Elbow buckling, he was perilously close to further impaling himself. Slipping, Merlin rested on his knees, his right elbow and forearm across the solid ground below him. His forehead, dotted with beads of cold sweat, grazed the damp ground.

He tried to breathe slowly through his nose. Calmly.

For an instant, Merlin smelled leaves. Just leaves. And it was lovely. That autumn aroma that reminds one of crisp nights and hearty stews. Time spent at the hearth with a book. Russet and yellow and warm.

But over that hopeful and promising smell hung the tang of death. The smell of red. Of cold. Of the grave. Merlin slammed his eyes shut and retched, barely holding his last meal down. Like a dog with a shard of bone caught in its throat.

The sounds, the smell, the vertigo, the pain…they were overwhelming. The boy retched again.

His dripping blood hastened, quickly becoming a thin, frightful stream.

Gritting his teeth, Merlin willed himself to stay conscious, hand digging into the ground for purchase. It helped the dizziness and Merlin clawed the ground again and again.

Then, he felt himself calming. Pounding heart and laboured breaths slowing a little.

A little more.

As his forehead came to a rest on the cool damp leaves, Merlin mused that this might be as good a way to die as any.

Merlin'd always thought autumn a better time to pass than spring—best have enjoyed Camelot's summer than suffered her winter. But he hoped Arthur would get back. Would get back…in time.

Then, like a wish fulfilled, Merlin saw motion.

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Arthur.

He saw Arthur. The prince—a swirl of colour and sound—was sheathing of his sword.

"Merlin?" he called.

Through ringing ears, Merlin heard the beginnings of worry at the tip of his name…he sensed Arthur's head turn towards him.

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice was sharp, concerned.

Merlin heard the rapid footfalls. Not quite running, but near so.

Arthur's manservant was gasping now, barely holding himself up. In the back of Merlin's mind, behind the woozy thoughts about leaves, and fall, and stew by a fire, Merlin knew how this was to end. Barring a bloody miracle, he was going to die and Arthur was going to watch. With a sob Merlin wrenched the blade from his gut.

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to be continued.

Your feedback means more to me than you can know. More please!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note…I'm shooting for angst ahead…don't say I didn't warn you!

Barring a bloody miracle, he was going to die and Arthur was going to watch. With a sob Merlin wrenched the blade from his gut.

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CHAPTER 3

The physician's apprentice in Merlin knew that there was nothing to be done. His magic was useless. They were an hour's fast hike from help.

All he could hope for was to spare Arthur the pain of having to watch this happen slowly.

And so, already fading Merlin did the only thing he could. He steeled himself against the pain, wrapped his hand around the bloodied wood and with the prince's footfalls approaching quickly, Merlin pulled.

He felt a sickening resistance, as if pulling a dagger—in to the hilt—from a slab of raw meat.

Merlin could not contain his cry.

Part agony, part resolve, and—a larger part than he'd care to admit—guilt.

The offending weapon turned out to be a simple kitchen knife. It's blade the length of a small hand. It fell, so ordinary, from Merlin's bloodied fingers.

Then, there were boots.

The boots he'd polished a hundred times entered Merlin's line of sight. They were quickly replaced by the prince's dark hunting breeches as Arthur's knees hit the ground beside his servant.

Arthur had heard Merlin cry out and truthfully, his blood had run cold at the sound. His steps faltering for an instant before rushing on towards the downed man.

Arthur's jaw tightened painfully as he gently gripped Merlin's shoulders. The unnatural juddering of those narrow shoulders silently screamed threats and horror at the prince. Bracing himself, Arthur carefully turned and tipped Merlin, easing the boy into his back.

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For a moment, Merlin found the world turned upside down, sloshing this way and that, he wondered if he was going to throw up. Then, just as suddenly, he was no longer looking at the ground. His arm wasn't about to buckle. Instead, he was being carefully lowered to the spongy forest floor.

Looking up into Arthur's unreadable face.

The colours were so intense that for a moment Merlin's mind could do nothing but wonder. In the gloam the sky was a brilliant, just-darkening, blue. In front of the sky, as though protecting Merlin from it, was Camelot's prince. Merlin's prince. Clean blond hair, clear piercing eyes, a dark green cloak over a leather chest plate the colour of darkly toasted bread.

The prince was safe.

'Gods', the failing boy's mind whispered, 'Arthur is going to make a legendary king.'

The prince's voice broke the moment's silence.

"Merlin."

Merlin was curious to hear how very far away Arthur sounded. After all, he was right there.

Arthur's hands gripped Merlin's arms just above the elbow. Merlin was white as a sheet, one bloody hand clasped loosely to his side. He was clearly in pain, legs writhing, boots scraping death trails in the leaves.

Arthur roughly shoved his worry aside. It's probably a flesh wound, he reasoned. A flesh wound. Mind rambling, the prince lied to himself. Merlin would be alright with some bandaging, water, and a rest. Arthur'd use his vest as a bandage, cloak as a blanket. They'd wait in the forest until morning. Yes, he'd build a fire and they'd rest, Arthur guarding Merlin through the night. Help would come. Help would come. Help would come and he'd _never_ let his foolish manservant out of the bloody castle without armour again! No, not so much as a trip to the _washer-woman_ without armour.

As Merlin's eyes lost focus Arthur's mind was wrenched from its thoughts. His heart thudding. Arthur's hands tightened around Merlin's thin arms, he shook them, both rough and gentle. Afraid.

"Merlin! Look at me."

Merlin dragged his eyes back to his friend's face. Funny, he didn't remember looking away.

"Gods Merlin..." Arthur's voice tried for exasperation but never quite made it. The prince fumbled his gloves off—suddenly as clumsy as his ever-present manservant.

With forced-calm Arthur spoke in a reassuring voice. "Here now. Let me see." He quietly pushed aside Merlin's hand which limply slid off the wound, coming to a bloody rest, palm-up, on the ground. He quickly slid Merlin's jerkin up. Blood pooled in the dip of Merlin's stomach. His body was shaking with each short, panting breath. Arthur quickly swiped the blood away, desperate to see the wound. Please. Please. He threw out a feverant prayer to the heavens. Let it be shallow.

Blood poured forth faster than he could wipe it.

Arthur's face told Merlin what he already knew.

"You damn fool…" far from angry, Arthur's words were desperate, his face filled with fear and turmoil—no longer unreadable. "You _damn_ fool."

With the rough and choppy movements of a panicked man, Arthur sat as he hauled Merlin's head and shoulders into his lap, pressing a shaking hand onto Merlin's slick shirt, trying to stop the unstoppable.

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Arthur's face was stone, his voice, rough and clipped,

"Hold on Merlin. Just hold on."

As if he'd somehow forgotten where they were. Forgotten that his best friend's blood had already soaked the knees and back of his pants from the ground. Forgotten that blood was running in rivulets into his lap. Forgotten the rattling gasps and crimson hands. Perhaps forgotten. Perhaps not.

"…It's going to be alright."

Merlin knew how he'd feel in Arthur's place and a shudder wracked his body.

The young servant's mind felt to be in many places at once. He was watching the scene—and knew beyond a doubt that he'd die a thousand deaths to keep their roles from being reversed. He was in the forest with Arthur, freezing and gasping and afraid. But Merlin was also by a fire. By a fire with a book. He could almost feel the leather cover under his palm…

Another shake.

"Open your damn eyes Merlin!" Arthur's stern voice cracked and wobbled. He didn't know what to do…his mind whirling and sticking.

He couldn't lose Merlin. Not like this.

Please.

But the blood—there was too much. Too much. The prince pressed down harder, blinking back the prickling in his eyes. Blinking back the defeat that threatened to settle over this little patch of forest. A fog of loss.

With a wince at the renewed pressure of Arthur's hand, Merlin's eyes flew open.

Arthur nodded "There. That's good Merlin, just like that."

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Were they rocking? Yes, Merlin thought, maybe they were a bit.

Like Arthur, Merlin's mind was having a hard time keeping up. Ten minutes ago he and Arthur were trudging through the forest together. Arthur pretending he wanted Merlin to be quiet and Merlin pretending he didn't know. Now? Merlin was fairly sure he was perhaps a hand full of moments from bleeding to death. Maybe less.

'The liver' he thought hazily 'Gaius _said_ nothing bleeds quite so fast as the liver. Right again.'

Suddenly exhausted, the dying boy let his eyes droop.

Just for a moment.

So tired.

He was just _so_ tired. And cold.

In a flash, Arthur's hand, hot and damp and shaking was pressed to Merlin's cooling cheek. The future-king's voice was as frightened as Merlin'd ever heard it.

"Open your eyes! Merlin? I said open your eyes!"

If Arthur wanted him to open his eyes, Merlin would. He struggled to focus in the gloom as his hand found Arthur's—the one that wasn't pressed on the wound, which strangely enough was not that painful anymore.

Arthur gave Merlin's hand a hard squeeze. It was cold.

"That's right Merlin. Please hold on."

Merlin nodded, his breath was coming in fast desperate rasps. Merlin tightened his grip and a mockery of a smile, painted its way unconvincingly across Arthur's desperate face. "Finally, you listen to me…" Arthur shut his mouth with a snap. The rest of his phrase unspoken '…now that you're _dying_…' whispered across Arthur's mind. The traitorous words caused the prince's throat to tighten so suddenly and painfully, Arthur thought perhaps he'd never speak again.

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Merlin would have given anything to tease Arthur, to make some clever remark about finally learning to listen as he knocked brashly on death's stout door.

Even in this horror, each boy's thoughts mirrored the others.

Merlin gathered up enough air for a word, gasps became a near-lungful "I'm… 'm sorry."

Arthur's arms tightened on Merlin almost painfully.

Merlin was sorry? _Sorry?_

Arthur shook his head hard and forcing his eyes away from Merlin, he looked out into the dark forest. In a flash of memories Arthur knew Merlin to be clumsy, foolish, rash, a terrible bother, and _disrespectful._ Gods, he was disrespectful.

Merlin's master swallowed painfully. Head back, he blinked and blinked. Grasping desperately for control before speaking to the sky.

"Perfect."

Arthur paused, again, fighting himself for control, barely winning. His voice was a whisper; it was all he could trust.

"You've been nothing but perfect Merlin."

Weakening by the second, Merlin had no words. Instead he just nodded forcefully, once, twice. Body shaking as he did.

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Their grand destiny?

Their grand destiny had all been a cruel trick of a faceless and uncaring fate.

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…to be continued…again

Thank you all so much for the feedback. Reviews fuel the writing machine


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Their grand destiny?

Their grand destiny had all been a cruel trick of a faceless and uncaring fate.

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Merlin's tenuous hold weakened. His sticky grip slacking.

Arthur.

Arthur's voice returned to him, rushing out like a frightened bark. "_NO!_ No…Merlin!" The prince took a fervent breath, blinking back the burning behind his eyes. He would not allow himself the weakness. "Merlin. Just…" What was there to say? "…just look at me. Just keep looking."

As he always had, Merlin put every drop of himself into Arthur. Into what his friend, his master, _his destiny_ seemed to need so very desperately. Every ounce of effort, every spark of magic went into that one thing. Just look at Arthur. Just keep looking.

Mouth agape, pain written in the creases of his face, Merlin's breath came in gasps. Breath in, in, in, in, then after a painful pause, it shuddered out. Another silence. Ugly silence. Then, the little gasps began again.

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Merlin looked.

Merlin looked at Arthur, looked into the prince's eyes with pain and fear, but there was also acceptance. Resolve. Exhaustion.

Merlin _looked_ at Arthur as the pain faded.

Merlin _looked _as his hand slid out of Arthur's.

Merlin _looked_ as Arthur cursed, eyes spilling over, head shaking roughly. Denying the undeniable.

Merlin _looked_ as the prince yelled out. Yelled out wordless, formless emotion.

Merlin _looked_ as his body sagged. Sagged like an empty sack over Arthur's grasping arm and shaking legs. Each tendon and muscle shutting down.

Limp and defeated, Merlin looked because that is what Arthur had asked and it was all he could give.

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It wasn't long.

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Not more than a moment or two.

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The woods stood in a silent pause. Arthur's shouts had frightened the settling birds off, a flurry of wing beats into the night. In the hush, Merlin realized his panting breaths were no longer grating out. No longer loud. No longer desperate.

He wasn't breathing.

Merlin realized he wasn't breathing! A hot new spark of fear bloomed in this boy, so far from home, so far from his family.

And his heart…Gods! Gods no!

Merlin realized with clarity and horror, his heart—it wasn't beating. It lay still as death, in his unmoving body.

Two thoughts churned and collided behind Merlin's gaze …

He was still looking. Looking up at Arthur from unblinking, unmoving eyes.

And, he was dead. Merlin was dead.  
>.<p>

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Now, Arthur's realization wasn't far behind that of his favoured manservant.

By sheer will-power the prince had stopped his screams. Screaming to what end? He wasn't sure.

For help?

For Merlin to hold on?

For some _blasted_ divine intervention?

He didn't know.

But as a last whimper escaped the prince—anguish getting in the last word—Arthur pulled himself into the moment. A horrible moment, truth be told.

As Arthur had begged of him, Merlin's eyes were open. His mouth hung lax as though ready to speak, but Merlin's body was heavy. Limp. Utterly still.

No. No no NO!

Arthur's fear was so intense his heart ached within his chest, breath held; his vision throbbed in and out. His gaze fluttered from Merlin's face, to his chest, to Arthur's own bloody hands, and back.

NO! Please…

With quaking arms, the prince hurriedly placed Merlin on the ground, pulling himself back onto his knees. Arthur kept one frightened hand pressed uselessly to Merlin's still side. With his other hand, Arthur righted Merlin's sagging head.

That the end had come—had come and gone—was clear.

"Merlin! Damn it…damn it Merlin! You are not allowed…"

The prince's throat worked to swallow. Arthur's clothes grabbed and pulled, covered by sticky, cooling blood.

Merlin's blood.

"You can not be…"

His golden head shook of its own accord. No.

"You're not…"

Arthur choked off a sob that would have been embarrassing under any other circumstances.

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With one bloody hand still planted on Merlin's side, the other beside Merlin's narrow body, Arthur slowly lowered his ear to that thin chest.

He waited. Listening…as two thoughts swirled together…

Nothing.

There was nothing.

And Merlin.

Merlin was gone.

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to be continued…

Thank you to all who have reviewed! If you haven't yet (or even if you have) please please let me know what you're thinking!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Merlin was dead—of that the boy was certain. Dead and seemingly trapped in his own bloody corpse—like a buzzing fly under an overturned cup! This new knowledge turned out to be awfully frightening.

Over the next seconds Merlin saw realization blossom like a bruise on Arthur's face. Emotions flickered—from tension to fear, anger to a sadness Merlin's would never have thought Arthur capable.

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After the prince had listened to the silence that was Merlin's heart, he lingered a moment.

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Merlin felt, in an odd, disconnected way, Arthur's head resting heavily there. On his servants still chest. For an instant Merlin forgot his own predicament. He'd have cried for Arthur alone in the dark forest. If he could have.

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And so Arthur sat, defeated, clutching his knees to his chest, his eyes half-focused on Merlin. Merlin's body. His _corpse_. A part of him thought that if he just sat there, just sat very still, some answer, some rescue, would present itself.

Moments passed. The world continued on.

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For _his_ part, Merlin couldn't help but wonder why exactly he was still…still 'there'. Not alive, no certainly not that.

But not gone either.

Not a spectre.

Not on his way to the spirit world.

Not born again as an insect or a hunting dog.

And decidedly not (as he had always suspected) a consciousness simply snuffed out with the death of the body.

What if, he realized with horror, what if _this_ is what happens after death? Was if he was to spend eternity in a mouldering corpse? What if Gaius had him buried? What if he was burned on a pyre? What would happen then? Panic lurking just below the surface, Merlin turned his attention back to the two windows that were his eyes. He hoped to see Arthur but was met with only treetops and a starry sky.

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Alone.

Never had Prince Arthur found himself alone with a…with a body.

Gods, thinking of Merlin as a body caused a new clamping, unbearable tightness in Arthur's chest.

How—his mind wondered—how was he meant to go on? Now? Tonight? _Tomorrow?_ For the sake of all that is good, how could tomorrow even be?

The prince swiped a bloody, dirty hand across his chin, smiting the wetness that dripped from his chin to his pants.

And what of Merlin's loved ones? His mother? Gwen? Gaius?

The knights.

Gwaine.

Arthur slid his eyes closed, covering his mouth with a shaking hand. He fought the urge to scream. To scream to the _cursed _heavens.

How was Arthur meant to tell them that he'd lost Merlin?

He'd left to hunt and was returning with Merlin's _body_. His stomach heaved at the thought.

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After a time, Arthur yanked loose his good autumn cape. As the cold of the night raced up the prince's back he gave a shudder—the kind that almost brings a fresh round of tears. The prince covered Merlin quietly, to his pale neck. For a moment, Arthur's hand hovered over Merlin's eyes.

He should close them.

Because Merlin was dead.

The anguish he'd been holding in check spilled over and Arthur pounded the ground beside him, teeth clenched, other hand over his eyes. Two muted sobs escaped the confines of Arthur's control.

Arthur's mind was filled with reproach, accusations—he had been right there! Arthur had been _right bloody there_! Yet, he hadn't protected Merlin. And why not? What the blazing hades had the almighty powerful prince been trying instead to do…what? Impress some strange woman?

Grief washed anew over the prince. Wave after wave.

He couldn't do it.

He wouldn't do it.

Arthur would not be the man to close Merlin's eyes forever.

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Home.

Arthur had to take Merlin back. To Camelot. To Gaius. He bent to gather Merlin in his arms—taken again by this absolute stillness never present in life. With a grunt of stiffness Arthur rose.

Already weary enough to lie down and die, the prince had no idea how he'd ever get them home. But he had to try.

Fearing the weight he knelt again, placing Merlin gently down. Arthur thought for a moment before he took off his sword, belt, outer shirt, scabbard, knives, and chest plate.

He'd try again.

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Not for the first time, Merlin feared for Arthur. He could barely see the prince in the light of the rising moon but he saw enough in his features to know he was in shock.

When he realized the prince meant to carry him back to Camelot, Merlin's mind screamed at Arthur to leave him and go for help. He was already dead, what more could happen?

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Arthur had no such thought. No intention in the world of leaving Merlin to the forest's whim.

Again, he gathered his manservant up in his arms. Again, Arthur staggered to his feet. One quick glance around and the boys struck off.

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Moments turned into an hour, the moon rose high and bright above them. Flagging, Arthur silently kept on for Camelot.

The eyes of the forest, small animals, birds, watched the prince as he walked and walked, slowing but never stopping.

After a time Arthur's gait turned to a halting stagger—chest straining, limbs burning—he focused only on the next step.

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Merlin felt himself, sort of. He knew his feet dangled lifelessly, one arm across his chest, the other swaying as Arthur lurched ever onward. Merlin's head was canted into Arthur's chest. Through dead eyes, he watched his friend's chest heave and hitch.

If he could go back, Merlin never would have wasted his magic on a useless healing spell. He wished he'd crawled off into the underbrush—not to be found until a party could be sent out to retrieve his body the next day. An incantation for camouflage would have held.

Merlin felt he couldn't stand Arthur's suffering for another moment. He couldn't stand that Arthur was bloody killing himself bearing Merlin back to the castle.

No, Merlin couldn't stand these truths. Nor could he do a thing to change them.

They staggered on

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Over the deafening sound of his gasping breaths, Arthur realized he'd heard a call. Stumbling to a halt he swallowed, tried to be silent and listen. Exhausted and dizzy, Arthur's vision threatened, darkening at the edges.

The prince took a knee.

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Out of the night, Gwaine's voice grew nearer…yelling loudly for his best mate.

The yell of a man who has made it a habit of having a few drinks then setting off to find his friend—a friend who has made it a habit of getting lost.

"Merlin…"

The knight's sing-song call seemed nearly obscene to Arthur—grotesque in the face of the facts. Like feeding a dead puppy to its mother.

"Merlin? You lazy, useless, sod. I've come to escort your skinny backside home! If you're _lucky_ I'll let you trot beside my horse…Merlin?"

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Arthur cringed and called back weakly.

"Gwaine? Here. We're here."

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Thank you for the feedback so far! Even the 'less positive' one has kept me pressing on. Reviews make my day!


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur cringed and called back weakly.

"Gwaine? Here. We're here."

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Chapter 6

Arthur took a breath and tried again, louder this time. "Over here. Gwaine? Over here."

Gwaine's tone was teasing as he pointed his mount toward Arthur's voice "My liege! I'll assume you've my drinking companion with you?"

As the knight rounded the corner, Arthur came into view—straining back to both feet. Even in the moonlight, Gwaine's heart dropped. He knew. In that one instant, Gwaine knew. Arthur's knight, Merlin's friend, slid wordlessly off his mount. Horse and reigns forgotten, as if they never were. Gwaine took a step towards Arthur, and another, and he stopped.

There in the bright moonlight stood the mighty Prince Arthur. Nearly unrecognizable, he was shaking with exertion, in disarray from head to boot, hair darkly clinging to his forehead. And in his arms, Merlin.

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Merlin's body.

Merlin's body sagged in his master's grip; the boy's hanging hand was already dark. Pooling blood. Gwaine had not enjoyed a simple life. He'd seen death. Seen it in spades. And here it was again. Another visit into Gwaine's life.

For a long moment neither Gwaine nor Arthur knew what to say. Truthfully, Arthur half expected Gwaine to fall upon him—a charging bull. He knew he deserved it and simply waited. He'd left all his weapons in the clearing and made not a move to defend himself.

The stunned knight broke the silence not with a yell or a curse, not by throwing himself at Arthur. No, Gwaine broke the silence with a word.

"How?"

Arthur had forgotten, it seemed, how to speak. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

"Bandits." Arthur choked out.

About the same time Arthur re-discovered his voice, Gwaine rediscovered his feet. In three loping strides Gwaine was with them. His voice was everything at once. Raw but clear, devoid of emotion and bursting with it, angry and strangely tender. He looked Arthur in the eye "Give him to me."

Arthur tried to grasp Merlin tighter—his arms blazed with pain—and shook his head.

Effortlessly Gwaine took Merlin's body, the picture of barely-contained fury "It wasn't a request."

The moment his burden was gone, Arthur sagged to his knees.

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At another time in the knight's corrupt past, he'd worked a trade ship—far to the east. He was to dispose of the dead and almost-dead in the bowels of the craft. At that moment, kneeling in front of him, the prince reminded Gwaine of nothing so much as a slave rower. Soaked in sweat and blood, dirty face hollowed by exhaustion and grief. Perhaps just enough life to row another hour. Perhaps not. He just couldn't bring himself to rebuke the prince.

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Many times Arthur had envied Gwaine's ability to say what he was feeling without a thought to how it might sound or look to others. This was no exception. Graceful as a cat, Gwaine dropped into a cross-legged sit. Merlin lolled. As though they were the only two people on earth, Gwaine spoke. "Oh Merlin." His calloused hand gently smoothed Merlin's hair. "My friend, I'm so sorry."

Arthur's throat tightened and his eyes burned.

When Gwaine looked back up at the prince Arthur saw the glistening tracks on Gwaine's cheeks. The man made no effort to hide them.

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Arthur sat "Bandits. There were three bandits. I killed two."

Gwaine spoke without looking up "And the third?"

Arthur looked away in shame.

Gwaine pressed on, pointing at Merlin with his chin "The one who did this?"

Arthur shook his head ever so slightly.

"The one who did this lives then?"

Arthur cleared his throat and admit the burning truth "She does."

Gwaine pulled Arthur's cloak tighter around his cold friend "A woman…"

"Yes." Arthur wanted so much to explain himself—to explain that he'd killed the two large and armed men—that he hadn't known about the woman. He hadn't _known_. He'd tried to save Merlin, to stop the bleeding. Silence. What good would an excuse really be. Merlin'd died.

"Where?" Gwaine asked.

"Back the way I've came. You would find a clearing with the bodies of the other two. She ran from there. I can not say which way." After a moment Arthur spoke again, as much to himself as to Gwaine. "She was a small thing. Messy, hair like a broom. Dirty white top. Gray skirts. She took Merlin's…she took Merlin's medicine bag."

Gwaine's face matched his voice—frightening and hard. "I think I know her." His eyes bore into Arthur's, daring. "She's the one with my blade sticking from her chest. That right?"

Without missing a beat, Arthur nodded solemnly. "Yes. Yes, that's the one."

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Gwaine spoke to Merlin again, hand rubbing careful little circles on the still chest. "My friend. I've a job to do. We'll talk again after that."

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With some convincing, Arthur agreed to finish his journey on Gwaine's powerful horse. Once mounted, Gwaine passed Merlin's boneless body up to Arthur.

Again, Gwaine stroked Merlin's hair. Without a word he drew his short sword from the scabbard on his back and ran, headlong into the forest.

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Now that they rode, some of Merlin's anxiety for Arthur began to dwindle. He had been horrified by Gwaine's vengeance. In desperation, Merlin tried to access his magic, tried spells in his mind—nothing worked. Of course, he reasoned, spells had to be said aloud. He tried mentally yelling. Screaming. Begging. At Arthur. At Kilgharrah. He even tried hollering at the horse. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Merlin's world had shrunk to his own frightened thoughts and what he could see out of his open, glazing eyes. Even now, his eyes were becoming hazy.

As the horse bobbed and trotted along—made skittish by the overwhelming smell of blood—Merlin looked up at his prince. Silently watching the pale and stubbled underside of Arthur's chin, his neck. Arthur was quiet and a stony. Only the bobbling of his Adam's apple and hitching of his breath betraying the loss of his friend.

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As the towers of Camelot came into view, Arthur spotted a knight racing out to meet him, cloak fluttering in his wake. Hooves pounded closer and closer. As Leon drew his animal up short, shock was clearly written across his face. The prince looked to be a ruin and his manservant was clearly dead. "My word! Sire!"

Arthur shook his head and held up a hand. He could not explain again. Not again. Not now. "Go…" Arthur cleared his throat again. It was so tight. "Go ahead. Tell Gaius…" It was a coward's way out, he knew, but Arthur didn't care.

A thousand questions raced through Leon's mind, however he obeyed completely. "Immediately my lord." With a kick, Leon raced back towards Camelot and Gaius.

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Arthur waited a moment before following.

Horrible.

He would take Merlin to Gaius. It would be horrible.

Arthur supposed this his last moments alone with his servant. His friend. Arthur eased back the cape and looked again at Merlin. His arms were askew, his hands, covered in dry blood, lay curled like claws on his chest. It looked uncomfortable. Arthur gently straightened Merlin's arms along his sides then pulled the cover up again, tucking in his charge, snug against the night.

Tentatively Arthur brought a hand up to Merlin's head—caught in the crook of Arthur's arm. Like Gwaine before him, Arthur stroked Merlin's hair. Carefully, softly.

The shrill cry of a bird broke the moment, Arthur drawing back as though caught. With a sigh, he took the reigns and nudged the horse onwards.

To Camelot.

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To be continued

Thank you again for the reviews…they feed me.


	7. Chapter 7

With a sigh, he took the reigns and nudged the horse onwards.

To Camelot.

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Chapter 7

In a blur, sorrow and guilt fighting for their rightful place, Arthur passed through the gates of Camelot. The prince's thoughts were dark and he mused that Merlin was returning home for the last time.

Back.

They'd made it back.

The night was deceivingly bright, a beautiful full moon sang to the empty, blue, courtyard. _Almost_ empty.

At the corner where Gwaine's horse turned left, towards the home Gaius and Merlin had shared, Leon waited. In the cold light, he could have been a statue of a mounted knight. Without saying a word, Leon fell in directly behind Arthur. One set of hooves became two.

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As one, Arthur and Leon slid from their mounts. Arthur nearly managed with Merlin across his chest, trying mightily before going down on one knee. Leon was at his side in the blink of an eye—still as silent as he knew Arthur needed him to be. Knowing better than to try and ease the prince's burden, the knight braced Arthur by an elbow, helping him to his feet again. He then backed away with a nod.

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The boys entered the damp little candle-lit space. Arthur wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this wasn't it. Gaius appeared to be working, back to the door. Only the physician's slowness and shake in his hands hinted he knew the truth. For a moment Arthur had feared that Leon had not told the court physician that Merlin was gone. He needn't have worried.

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"Arthur." Gaius' quiet voice startled the prince back into the moment.

He said nothing, what was there to say?

Finally Gaius looked up from his work.

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Oh, he knew. Sorrow was etched into every line in his face, it was written in the shape of his mouth, the angle of his shoulders, the clench of his hands, and Gaius' eyes—they radiated shocking loss.

"Arthur." Gaius' voice did not match the rest of his being; he sounded quiet and surprisingly calm. "Please sire. Please Arthur, lay him…" Gaius took a second to re-steady his voice "lay Merlin on the bed. At the fire."

Arthur did as he was told, arms screaming in agony as Merlin's weight left them. With his head bowed Arthur backed away as Gaius stepped up to the cot. Arthur's vision swam with unshed tears. With a start, Arthur backed into a stool against the far wall. After quietly closing the door he'd come by, Arthur sat silently on the hard and unforgiving seat. Gaius would have some questions of him he'd no doubt.

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Dear Camelot—Arthur realized with a sinking stomach—the old physician thought he was alone after hearing the door shut. Gaius was speaking to Merlin. His voice low, nearly moaning, back quivering. Mourning. Arthur wanted to dissolve into the floor boards. Instead he settled for sitting perfectly still and staring at his hands—mouth twisting with the effort to hold himself together. Staring at Merlin's dry blood on his hands. Gaius' anguished cry yanked Arthur's head up as if on a string.

Never, in all his days would the prince forget the image he saw.

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Gaius was sitting on the edge of the bed, back to Arthur. He'd eased Merlin to a sitting position, and was desperately grasping at the boy, holding Merlin to his shaking shoulder. Merlin's arms dangled limply—dead eyes still open, his head lolled grotesquely at Gaius' neck. As Gaius held his adoptive son tightly, his wail could have broken stone.

It was so horrible Arthur sobbed out loud before he had time to cover his mouth. Dear gods—this was his fault. Arthur's fault.

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Unseeing, unhearing, Gaius groped for and caught one of Merlin's limp arms. Gaius gently pulled Merlin's arm around his own shoulder—wanting, _needing_, an embrace. One more embrace from his good, fine, boy.

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Merlin thought…no, Merlin knew this to be the worst moment he'd ever experienced. For all he'd hoped that maybe Gaius had some secret fix to this wee problem of being deceased—dead was permanent. Gaius knew this better than most. Merlin'd known Gaius would be sad…but this was so much more terrible than he could have imagined. Gaius was _suffering_.

And Arthur.

From his view over Gaius' shoulder, Merlin saw Arthur. Saw him try to catch his sob and fail.

Anguish.

Anguish was the word that came to Merlin's mind. Arthur, the strong and resilient prince of Camelot was truly crying now, one hand pressed hard over his mouth and the other fisted in his bloody lap.

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Forcing himself to watch, Arthur bore witness. Gaius' embrace was short lived as Merlin's arm slid from his shoulder. The young servant's head dropped back, and Gaius tenderly placed his shaking hand into that shock of dark hair, gently bringing Merlin's face into his shoulder.

"Shhh…" he whispered, voice choked with emotion. "Shhh now my boy. Oh, my dear boy." As Gaius quieted, Arthur's sounds found their way across the small room. With a start, Gaius turned towards the prince. He'd no idea the boy was still there, slumped on the work stool. He could not find it in himself to care.

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After a time, more than a moment, Gaius became conscious that the prince was suffering as well. He knew Merlin would want Arthur cared for in…in his absence.

"Sire."

Arthur looked up, eyes speaking quite clearly.

"Sire. You shouldn't…you don't have to be here. You've brought Merlin home, and I thank you for that."

A look of confusion knit Arthur's brows, "Where would you have me go?"

To that there was no answer.

Carefully, Gaius lowered Merlin back to the bed. They sat in silence for what seemed forever.

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The moon had passed its zenith and was working its way across the sky. The night would not last forever. One way or another, there would be a tomorrow.

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Finally Gaius pulled his eyes from his ward and looked to Arthur, who had settled in—elbows on knees, staring into the fire.

"Arthur. It is time for you to go now." As Arthur moved to disagree, Gaius raised his hand. "Truly sire. You must rest and I would like some time."

With a pained nod, the prince jerkily rose. Then he was gone.

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Gaius had also settled somewhat—horror and torment dulling down to a mere misery.

He had to know for sure, he had to check.

"My dear, dear boy." Gaius was not surprised to hear tears lingering in his voice "If you are still in there. If you have not found your way yet, don't be afraid Merlin. Everything will be all right."

Feeling a thousand years old, Gaius slowly stood. He doused the fire and drew the curtain before working his way to each candle, snuffing one after the other. Training darkness. He sat again with Merlin's cool body and blew out the last.

In the utter darkness Gaius leaned over his ward, feeling his way and looked into Merlin's eyes.

Gold.

There it was, the tiniest speck of gold.

"Oh Merlin…I'm so sorry this has happened to you. I should have explained, should have told you." Gaius fumbled for his words. "But I never knew, I never imagined…that you would…would pass."

Gaius sounded as old as he felt, speaking to those flecks of gold in the dark. "How could you Merlin? You've gone on without me. Much, much too soon."

After several ticks of silence, he pressed on. "I need you to know how much I care for you my boy. Before you go, you must understand. I love you Merlin. We all do. Your mother. The others. Gwen. Gwaine. Arthur." Gaius was crying again. It seemed misery was without end.

"As I close your eyes Merlin…"

Gaius' chest tightened painfully at the thought. He had to begin again.

"As I close your eyes, your soul will be free to move on from this body. Picture Balinor. And that wee girl you cared for and didn't think I knew." A tiny smile ghosted over Gaius' face at that.

"Also your friend Will. Picture each of them in your mind's eye Merlin and you will be there. With them. In Avalon."

With a shuddering breath, Gaius placed his thumbs over the cool dry lids and slowly closed Merlin's eyes. Gold winking out, a dying ember.

"Don't forget my boy…" his voice seemed farther and farther off to Merlin "think of Avalon. Know how much you have been loved. Goodbye Merlin…..love you."

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Merlin's windows to this world began to close, the blinds drawn. As Merlin thought of those he loved, one image would not leave him. One who needed Merlin.

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Free.

Merlin's spirit was finally free. Separating from his ruined, pale, blood soaked form. The darkness of Gaius' home was replaced by slowly building light. Torch light.

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to be continued…

ps…review please please please!


	8. Chapter 8

Last chapter, it's a longer one.

Here there be darkness. Just so you know.

Merlin's spirit was finally free. Separating from his ruined, pale, blood soaked form. The darkness of Gaius' home was replaced by slowly building light. Torch light.

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Chapter 8

Merlin, being Merlin, did not think of Avalon. Did not think of his father, or Will, or even Freya. Merlin thought of Arthur. It wasn't his fault really, Merlin mused. He simply _needed_ to see Arthur, to make sure he was going to be alright.

As he slowly became aware of the darkness giving way to flickering torch light, Merlin found himself behind the striding prince. They were headed, it seemed, from the throne room to the prince's chambers. Arthur'd likely been to speak to the king.

Like a reflection of a wraith, doomed to but look, Merlin watched.

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Once past the threshold, Arthur closed the door quietly and slowly, fighting an urge to slam it, wrench it open, and slam it again and again. Instead he settled for leaning against the rough wood for a moment. With his eyes closed, alone for the first time since…well…since _it_ happened Arthur took stock of himself.

He hurt.

Arthur began to feel the pains that, unbeknownst to him, were going to leave him bed-ridden for the better part of a month. Even one such as the prince did not survive such a shock and carrying a (dead) ten-stone weight over miles without suffering injury. He'd carried Merlin at least forty furlong, to be sure.

No longer striding, Arthur made his way to the first chair he could and sat roughly down. He looked around his room as though he'd never seen it before.

Merlin's soul ached.

After a quiet moment, a servant knocked to take care of the prince's needs. With the flick of a wrist and a look that brooked no questions, Arthur shoed the not-Merlin away.

"Come _on_ Arthur…" Merlin reasoned "you need a bath. A high fire. You need a change of clothes." To his own ears, Merlin's voice was pleading—Arthur heard nothing but his own blood pounding, pounding, in his head. "Please Arthur…please. You have got to eat. And sleep."

Arthur stared ahead. At nothing. Time passed. The sun began to fearfully creep out of hiding.

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With a great bang, the door Arthur had so quietly closed hours ago flew open. Merlin startled, while Arthur barely registered the interruption. The prince slowly lifted his eyes to the door.

Gwaine strode in to the prince's chambers. The idea of knocking never crossing his mind. He tossed Arthur's sword on the bed "Brought you this back."

To Merlin, his friend looked like a man who had run pell-mell through the forest all night. He supposed, that was probably the case.

It was no surprise that both men had been bloodied. While Arthur had been drenched, Gwaine showed but a small soak-through at his waist, where he'd held his mate for a time. Now however, Merlin noted a _new_ spattering of blood on Gwaine. It cut a thin swath of dark dots up across Gwaine's chest.

Three errant spots graced his right cheek. Inwardly, Merlin groaned, saddened.

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Arthur.

Arthur just sat.

Looking no better to Gwaine's eyes than he had hours ago, the prince finally spoke—his voice was ice. "Did you find…_her_."

With a curt nod, Gwaine replied. "Aye. I did."

Gwaine casually scratched at the new blood on his tunic with one calloused thumb. "We _spoke_."

Merlin knew that Gwaine would have cut her down like a stalk of wheat. Growling perhaps. Speaking? Not bloody likely. It pained him to see perhaps the finest two men in all of Camelot acting out of rage. Revenge. It filled the room.

"Gwaine…" Merlin whispered "I'm so sorry."

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Arthur just nodded, his eyes narrowed. A decision made. "You _spoke_. I see. And this _talk_…this talk you two had. You had it in her village? Her home?"

Gwaine flicked his head, then shoved his tangled hair back from an exhausted but absolutely merciless face. "Aye."

Arthur spoke, his word burning Merlin's spirit "You'd know where she's from then."

Gwaine's nod was stealthy "I would."

Merlin's horror built at the unspoken threat hanging between the men. Unheard words trickled from Merlin "Please! Arthur, Gwaine! Please, you can not!"

Speaking over the soul of his beloved servant, Arthur went on. "Did you…speak" the prince's breath was coming fast, his jaw tight, voice ringing loud "…did you _speak_ to the murdering bitch's family? Did you _speak_ to them?"

"Not yet," The knight leaned back against Arthur's footboard, purposefully casual "figured you might want to _speak_ with the others yourself."

Arthur breath came fast and loud as he thought and nodded, hands clenching and unclenching. The prince's voice was no longer cold, it creaked and cracked, "Family." The word hung in the air. "Merlin…." Merlin turned to Arthur at his name. "Merlin _was_ family you know..."

Gwaine just nodded, not sure he could speak. Clearing his throat and giving a mighty sniff, Gwaine wiped his sleeve across his nose. "Tell you what princess. I've got to…" for a moment, Gwaine's features crumpled. He swallowed harshly and bit down on his lower lip. After a second he could continue "I've got to stop by Gaius' rooms. Got to…I'm to…"

To visit Merlin. To say good bye, Arthur knew he too would visit the physician's chambers again. He'd some things that needed saying himself "I understand."

Gwaine gave a grateful nod. "Yeah. But after….after _that_ I thought I'd take a few of the others…" his eyes darted to the prince's "I'm not the only one who's busted up you know." Arthur knew. "Anyways…I thought I'd take a few of the others…"

Merlin was screaming now "No, no, Gwaine! You can't do this! I'm not worth it—I never was! Please…Gwaine!" His desperate glance went to the prince "Arthur! Please!"

Again, Merlin was powerless. The others went on. He wasn't there.

Gwaine stood, tall and dangerous. His expression was one of pure and deadly rage. Yet his tone was frightenly even. "Thought I'd take a few of the others and have a _talk_. You know, a real sit-down conversation. With her family. Mayhaps even the neighbours."

Merlin was beside himself! The crown prince of Camelot and a knight of the realm were planning to execute an entire family. A village!

Arthur was a man Merlin had never met. He just nodded, cold, murderous—royal assent. "Yes. Well then. If you've got that part taken care of, I will stay behind and help Gaius. With…with arrangements."

"Fine."

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In the background, unheard, Merlin stormed and screamed. The effect was less than nothing. Less than the scuttling of a cloud across the moon.

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Gwaine licked his thumb and set to rubbing a drop of blood from his stubbled cheek as he turned to go. First to Merlin. Then to the others.

"And Gwaine…"

The knight absently picked at the next spot of blood on his neck. "Sire?"

"When you _speak_ to the family. Be sure to send my wishes."

A curt nod was all the answer he needed. Gwaine strode for the door.

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Merlin _had_ to do something. Had to make Arthur realize that this wasn't him. Gods! In the blink of an eye, in one short night, Arthur had become his father. All Merlin had done, all he'd hoped for Arthur—it was going to be all for not.

Gwaine opened the door, was disappearing around the corner…

In his desperation Merlin felt the smallest, tiniest tingle of his instinctual magic—no spells were needed for that. Without another thought, Merlin directed it at Arthur with only a plea. A plea and his feelings "Please Arthur. Please. No."

With the twitch of one fist, Arthur stood. "Sir Gwaine."

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After a pause, Gwaine turned back, framed by the threshold. His expression had softened some. Part of the knight was readying himself to go to Gaius. Readying himself to say his farewells to the first person who really cared about him.

Arthur looked into Gwaine's eyes and saw the beginnings of what would become a new layer of permanent hurt, of darkness. "This talk you're going to have. With the family…with the locals," the prince affected a thoughtful expression "sounds like adult talk."

"Could be."

"Alright then," Arthur nodded, his mind made up "you and your men are only to _speak_ with the adults. Not the children. Not a word, so to speak, to the young."

With a nod, Gwaine was gone.

It wasn't much—Merlin had no doubt that Gwaine and the others would slaughter a dozen, maybe two. A village. But the children, the children would be spared. Of that Merlin was grateful. In Arthur's place, Uther would never have spared the children.

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Merlin shifted to the window. The sun was rising already.

His first day dead.

How odd.

At least he was sure now of what he needed to do next; Arthur still needed him and Merlin seemed to have the ability to impact the prince in a small measure. A very small measure. But, it would have to do.

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Merlin moved towards Arthur. The prince was sitting so quiet and still he could have been a painting. Looking to Merlin as frightened and confused as a small puppy, taken from its mother, kicked by fate, and thrown cold and alone into the street.

Avalon would have to wait.

Someday—years and years down the road—an older and wiser Arthur, King Arthur, would look up from his death bed and find Merlin had been waiting for him all that time.

They'd go on together.

Until then, Merlin would just keep looking.

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The end Dear Readers! Thank you for the reviews so far, I would love to hear what you think one more time, now that we are done here.


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